Somewhere in Latin America
by Clio1792
Summary: An episode in an AU Scarlet Pimpernel series, set in Latin America during the second half of the twentieth century.


_**Somewhere in Latin America...**_**in the second half of the twentieth century...along a deserted beach...**

**In my introduction to **_**Through the Fire**_**, I indicated that I had been playing with the idea of a modernized, AU Scarlet Pimpernel, set somewhere in Latin America, during the second half of the twentieth century. **

**Below, please find the first of several scenes that have been coming to me, in fragments, as episodes of this modernized version. **

**Because these fragments originate only from my own imagination, any resemblance to real personages, living or dead, is entirely coincidental; likewise, I wish to advance the disclaimer that I do not own Baroness Orczy's wonderful original story, nor its sequels, nor the poem of John Keats, _On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer _(1884) quoted below.**

**I have rated this fragment a "T," but wish to warn prospective readers that there are some references to what might be termed "political" violence below. **

**Although I mean no offense, and hope none is taken, those who find such references upsetting may wish to forgo reading this piece.**

**As always, I invite and welcome comments both negative and positive. **

The sky over the Pacific was always different from the sky over the Atlantic, Percy thought, as he walked across the open beach with the other man.

Faceless, nameless, his companion was an old, old friend-someone he and Andy, Tony, Ed, and the others had all known at the West coast University they'd attended together.

Their friend, however, had gone a different way; chosen State Department work rather than the path of the private entrepreneur.

At the time, he'd professed ideals-a commitment to public service, belief in what their country stood for.

Now, Percy suspected, it had a lot more to do with the way he'd become comfortable.

"Here's where the body was found," his friend said, his voice competing with the sound of the waves rising behind them.

He pointed to a spot a few yards from the water's edge, where sand lapped at an outcropping of rocks.

The body itself was long gone.

There was no evidence, other than the man's indicating finger, that anything had ever disturbed the seaside landscape. Against the undulating sounds of the Pacific, all that could now be seen were a few piles of driftwood; the dull black of random stone; a handful of scurrying crabs.

Percy tried a question, the question it was hardest to ask, and most difficult for his friend to answer.

"Did you know they were going to do it?"

"We weren't certain," his friend answered, after a long pause. "But we suspected."

"And you made no attempt to intervene?" Percy had to swallow his rising indignation. It was important, he thought, to stay cool-his friend had already taken a risk, meeting him at all.

"We're monitoring the situation," his friend replied, after another silence. "But our orders are to stay out of it-at least for now."

Percy turned toward the rolling waves and looked out over the blue waters of the ocean.

He thought of the woman whose body had washed ashore, a woman once youthfully pretty in an ordinary, accessible kind of way. He had met her once during the previous year and noted the difference between the middle-aged matron he had encountered and the photographs she had shown him of a younger, carefree self. Age and misfortune had transformed her into a heroine of stunning bravery, courageous and magisterial. Once a mere widowed mother, who had sought only to discover the fate of her beloved son, she had become a symbol, an inspiration for hundreds, indeed, thousands, of other grieving mothers, no less baffled than she by the turn their country had taken.

But now she had ended her life in the sea, as, almost certainly, had the son whose fate she had hoped to learn.

How many other victims had the sea obligingly swallowed?

How many could he rescue before they, too, fell, to its azure depths?

For some unknown reason, the next words that cycled through Percy's mind were remnants of the first-year English class in which they all had met; he thought of Keats's poem, _On First Looking into Chapman's Homer_, the line about how "..._s__tout __Cortez__**…**__ star'd at the __Pacific__—and __all __his __men__/__ Look'd at __each__other__ with a __wild __surmise..."_Here now, was his "wild surmise," Percy thought, the lines of his handsome mouth tightening, as he contemplated the empty grave of a victim he had not been able to save.

And then Percy turned to his friend, his light southern drawl drawn into a tone different from the careless, nonchalant, slightly drunken accents he affected when they met in public; a voice now serious, rendered eloquent by the force of his own feeling about the tragedy laid before him.

"How can you possibly justify standing by and allowing this to happen?," Percy began, finishing his query by addressing his friend by name. "What did we all believe in? What did we all talk about when we were in college? What does our country stand for? And we're letting them get away with this?"

"It's their decision," his friend replied, his voice flat, and unyielding. "It's their country...we can't just abrogate the sovereignty of another nation by barging in and..."

Percy's voice rose slightly as he cut off his friend's bureaucratic defense with a barnyard oath. "It's _our_ responsibility as fellow human beings!" Percy continued, with some passion. "This isn't about self-determination-it's about right and wrong! It's about conscience!"

"I'm not saying I _personally _disagree with you, Percy," the other man replied, deliberately composed in the face of Percy's rising temper. "I'm just saying we can't support what you and your friends are doing _officially_."

His friend turned away from the empty sand that drew their gaze, and faced Percy squarely.

"We won't interfere with your..." his friend paused for a moment, apparently seeking the right word, and then continued as he found it, "interventions...And, in fact, Percy," his friend went on, engaging Percy's eyes as he spoke, "I haven't said anything to anyone, but you ought to know I'm not the only person in the department-or even back home, in Washington-who supports what you folks are up to. But you guys have to be careful. A few people already suspect Tony and Ed, although your name has never come up."

"We're not going to try to stop you," his friend promised, "but we aren't going to be able to help you, either."

He heard his friend draw a sigh of regret before he delivered his final words. "And we can't promise you any protection if any of you are caught."

Percy was silent a moment, looking back into his old friend's eyes.

He saw firmness there, the principle he'd always respected, mixed with resignation, and something that looked like shame.

And then Percy nodded.

It would have to be enough.


End file.
